Great Expectations, Greater Disappointments
by Choice
Summary: Sequel to Puck's Five Ways to Being Gay and Than Never to Have Loved at All. Kurt learns the hard way that apologies can't fix everything.


**Great Expectations, Greater Disappointments

* * *

**

I wrote this literally right before I collapsed in my bed for the night, because a) the new episode of _Glee_ had me flailing and occupied and b) I procrastinated a bit. But really, is the latter any surprise where I'm concerned? :P

It's unedited, and it's definitely going on a path I didn't expect it to. GOD, THE ANGST. But still... I hope you enjoy it! There're **four** more drabblet-things to go before things are done with, so you've got for more parts to go, audience!

Until next time.

* * *

In foresight, expecting to be welcomed into open (tanned and muscular) arms with little more than an apology paired with a bit of endearing lash-fluttering was more than a bit naïve, even for him.

"Look, I said I was sorry." Kurt tried acting unshakably angry, but he felt more like a sandcastle dissolving in the growing tides. He was so _not_ in his element: no one had _ever_ showed romantic interest in him before, and all he had to work with was the squeamish semblance of aloofness from The Blanket Incident (and look how _that_ turned out). He was loosing his footing in the choreography. Flailing about like a fool was making him flustered, and he _hated_ it.

"You have no right-no _fucking_ right to waltz up to me after _publicly turning the Puckinator down_and expect a half-assed apology will get you back on my radar! I have standards, believe it or not." He slammed his locker shut like a verbal period.

"It was hardly _public!_ I'm more than positive Mercedes was the only one who even heard anything. _Plus_,

"Dude, two wrongs don't make a right."

Puck made to storm past him, and right then-after having _Puck_ of all people lecturing _him_ on morals… Kurt saw red. He reached out and grabbed whatever part of Puck he could, which ended up being Puck's broad, strong shoulder. "Don't _tell_ me-"

"No-_don't!_" Puck jerked away from Kurt touch as if his smooth, duck fat-treated hands were red-hot branding irons. With every minute muscle spasm and exhaled growl that filled the gaping, festering wound of silence, it was easy to see how much Puck wanted to lash out at him. In any other scenario, with any other jock, Kurt would undoubtedly be looking at an ambulance gurney-serious roughhousing.

But right now, Kurt wasn't really concerned for his own safety. Not really, not with Puck looking like he did right then.

People were always comparing Puck to animals-hell, Puck did it enough _himself_-but only in sexual and predatory contexts. The fact that he'd been a frequent cougar-hunter in the past did nothing to stop those comparisons, either. But right at that moment, watching Puck slink further and further away from him, eyes frenzied and wide… Kurt was painfully reminded of a trapped, frightened animal.

"Sorry! I'm sorry," Kurt rambled, holding up his hands as he took a few steps back. Puck shuddered in a deep gulp of air, as if he'd been suffocating just from being in Kurt's vicinity. Which, _ow_. (That didn't mean Kurt didn't deserve it, though.)

"Don't fucking touch me, Hummel. You hear? After turning me down, like, _seconds_ after I-!" Puck shook his head. "You might as well have laughed in my fuckin' face."

Kurt scowled. "Well, you can't blame me for doubting your intentions! I mean, what, did _God_ tell you to get up close and personal with the girly boy? Is that why you came up with this, out of nowhere?"

"Fuck you! You don't know shit about God, you've never even gave Him a fucking chance!" Puck cried. Kurt tensed up at the image of Puck, in such raw, grainy exposure. He jumped when Puck's fist sailed its way into a locker, and seconds lader Puck was muffling curses into his red-speckled knuckles.

Kurt stared at the jagged crater for a moment, silent and terrified, before forcing himself to meet Puck's wide-eyed, panicked gaze. "Look, God didn't tell me to do shit, alright? I begged and pleaded with Him to make this stupid noise _go the fuck away_, but-" He shook his head to himself, choking out a hysterical laugh. "I don't know why I'm tryin' to talk about this with you, of all goddamn people."

"Because you want me to understand," Kurt ventured weakly. He stepped closer and went to touch Puck's forearm, but stopped at the very last moment. They wordlessly watched as the limb fell, weak and boneless, to his side. "And I _want to understand_, Puck. I _do._"

"No-you know what? You _had_ your chance. You coulda asked me why, or how, _anything_ and you'd get answers. But-no. You missed out, and I'm saying no to you now, just like you did before. I couldn't care _less_ about you, I don't know what I was thinking." He scoffed and rubbed at the back of his neck before turning away from Kurt.

"Puck, please!" Kurt begged, but his feet were rooted in place. He let Puck get away. It was easy to spot knew a hopeless cause when you knew what one looked like.

He sighed and leaned back against the lockers, wincing when his head fit perfectly into the cradle where Puck's fist had been.

* * *

He told Mercedes what went down, and all he got in return was a serious bitch-face. She shook her head, muttered about "Stupid boys" and snatched his cell phone.

That night, he ate enough Ben and Jerry's for _three_ birthday parties and felt nothing but a possible oncoming of lactose intolerance.

Kurt grimaced at the roiling of his stomach as he looked at his cell contacts for the millionth time._Fix It_, said the ID Mercedes had typed in, "Or I won't talk to you for the rest of the week."

"It's not like he'd want to talk nice to me anyway," he muttered self-piteously before he actually heard himself. He wrinkled his nose and gave his knee a firm slap. "I think I'm justified in saying that's _enough_ drama for one day. Good Versace, I'm pathetic."

He selected the contact. "Just do it," he muttered to himself. "A simple, harmless text. It's pathetic, but it's better than nothing."

Five minutes and much backspacing and fretting later, Kurt sent his text: _hey puck… its kurt. i really am sorry bout today. REALLY. if you let me i wanna make it up to you_

He was biting his nails and totally _not_ cool, anxiously waiting for a new text alert.

An hour and ten minutes later, just as he downed a shot of Pepto and crawled into the cocoon of his bedsheets, his Blackberry lit up. _NEW TXT MSG: Fix It_

View now. _Definitely_ view now.

_idk… gimme sum time._

Kurt swallowed, nauseous from more than just an overabundance of Cherry Garcia. _k night_, he texted back.

He sighed and curled into a ball, cradling his aching stomach and trying not to cry over possibly blowing his one shot at the semblance of a real relationship while he was still in high school.

Kurt frowned when his phone vibrated on the nightstand, blindly grabbing it only to give a little spaz when he saw who it was from.

_night kurt ttyt._

Tomorrow, Kurt thought with a dopey smile. Maybe all hope wasn't lost after all.


End file.
